


Da Vinci Sketched a Sex Addict

by proxydialogue



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Purgatory, a character study in porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-07
Updated: 2012-07-07
Packaged: 2017-11-09 09:17:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/453863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/proxydialogue/pseuds/proxydialogue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Putting shit together and breaking shit apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Da Vinci Sketched a Sex Addict

**Author's Note:**

> unbeta'd. All mistakes are mine.

Putting a human body back together isn’t like fixing a jigsaw puzzle or mixing the elements for a thunderstorm. A body has to be coaxed. All the little cells and their memories need to be woken up, coerced, excited into a ferocious state of _life_. 

Dean doesn’t remember how Cas assembled him after Hell and that is probably for the best. It was intimate. And however predisposed Dean is to sex, he loathes intimacy. 

But there’s no help for that now. If Cas doesn’t start convincing Dean’s body to heal there will be nothing left of him to drag back to Sam. If they even plan on slogging through to the next sunrise there needs to be action now. He leads Dean to the base of a huge black tree and pushes him gently to the ground, fitting him into the deep hollow between roots like ocean waves. Dean tries to protest, mumbling about how they need to keep moving, but blood is filling his mouth and drowning his tongue. 

That is where Cas decides to start. He removes his coat and lays it beside Dean on the ground. Then he pulls his ruined white shirt over his head and drops that too. 

Dean, now that he’s down, couldn’t get up if he wanted. He watches Cas with hazy eyes and a distant frown of confusion. 

“What’ya doin?” he rasps weakly. 

Cas kneels down carefully, one knee on either side of Dean’s hips, and tries to look certain. The tiny blue threads in his wrists twist in him all the way to his chest and make his disobedient heart pound. _It is not for me_ , he reminds himself harshly, _it is for him_. As it always has been. 

“Cas,” says Dean, a little bit stronger in his alarm. Cas bends over and uses his right thumb to brush away the black eye. Dean’s lashes close. “What are you doing?” he whispers. 

Cas doesn’t answer because Dean knows. He’s smart enough to guess. He will be remembering the heat in his stomach when Cas healed him after the apocalypse. The sting in his chest that was more than pain when Cas carved the protective sigils into his ribs. More blood comes up from Dean’s throat, makes him cough and gag. Cas leans in. 

“Please try to accept it if you can,” he says, “it will help the process.” The truth is that if Dean enjoyed it, it would work the best. If Dean could let his mind exist in his skin…but that sort of trust hasn’t existed between them for a long time. And, Cas brushes the first kiss over Dean’s lips as a kind of warning, _this_ sort of trust has never existed between them—Cas doesn’t dare to hope it ever will. 

He must do his best with what Dean can give him. 

Cas inhales, despite himself the brittle sound of it trembles, and convinces Dean’s lips to part with his tongue. The blood is an ugly, metallic taste, but Cas pushes through it and cups Dean’s jaw while he finds the source. It’s somewhere in the back of Dean’s throat, and perhaps further down in his lungs as well. Cas sweeps his tongue over the roof of Dean’s mouth and rouses the atoms. He sucks in, breathes out, and chases them in the direction of the wound. 

Dean’s first clear breath rushes in through his nose. 

Cas stays in his mouth a moment, to be sure, to seek out every corner accessible to him and know that they are whole. ( _Ah_ , but it is selfish too. Because Dean tastes like bruised humanity without the blood, and it is balm to Cas’ own broken pieces.) _Stop. Heal him only_. Cas pulls away abruptly, doesn’t meet Dean’s eyes when they open. He brushes his palms over Dean’s neck instead and fits together his shattered collarbone. Dean breathes.

Cas crawls down a little more, hands sweeping down Dean’s beaten sides. He nudges Dean’s shirt up and goes to work on the cracks in his ribs. He attends to each individually. First reminding the flesh with his lips, and then startling the muscles with his teeth, until the bones themselves shudder and reminisce. 

Some word has scratched out of Dean above him, but Cas can’t listen to it. _Concentrate_. The muscles of Dean’s stomach flex with his ministrations, and below them there is more internal bleeding. He spreads one hand over Dean’s chest to steady himself and asks Dean to curve his spine by slipping his fingertips around to the small of his back. Dean arches off the ground and it exposes the small tears in his intestines. It is easy to convince these to close. Light, feathered kisses are enough. 

A torn tendon at Dean’s hip calls Cas lower and he goes. He drags Dean’s jeans down, unbuttons them because the fabric won’t give, until he can get at the small divot. It’s swollen and black and blue. But Cas licks the imperfections away (accidentally makes new ones, his fingernails against Dean’s back). He lifts his head to apologize. 

Dean’s hands suddenly grab his face and haul him up. Dean has pushed himself partially upright against the tree and his knees bend, shifting Cas into his lap. _Too soon_ , Cas reaches behind himself in panic with one hand for the ripped muscle he knows is in Dean’s right thigh. His foot too, is broken. 

He can’t find them. Dean is somehow already whole. _Almost_. 

Dean brings their mouths back together. For one, blinding half-second it makes no sense. Cas has already been here, there is no pain to be found behind Dean’s teeth or along the seams of his lips. (He almost hopes it is a kiss itself. Just a kiss.) But, _of course_. 

Cas consents. He tangles his own breath and small sounds in just the way that Dean asks him and reaches for the final source of pain, though it’s not real pain, only need. Dean lifts his hips so Cas can drag his clothes out of the way. He clutches, his fingers dig into Cas’ hair and Cas fits his hand around Dean’s center of desperation. 

The kiss snaps, Dean tips his head back and makes a shattered sound with his perfect lungs. His stomach ripples in small thrusts. Cas keeps himself balanced, strokes with one hand and cradles Dean’s neck with the other. He tries not to fly apart. But it hurts. _God_ , it hurts, to have this beautiful creature beneath him and to know how far out of bounds he has gone to touch it. What damage he has caused by touching already. Even this much, this necessary relief he gives, is more than he should have ever been allowed. He wants but he cannot take. He needs but it is not his place to be given. 

He breaks anyway. There will be no forgiveness; he is crooked and weak. Cas looks once, terrified, into Dean’s green eyes (pupils wide as planets) and dips into a struggle of teeth and tongue. 

Dean cries heat into Cas’ mouth and bends back. His discomfort shudders and leaves his body. He relaxes, his pulse slows, and in short moments he is redone and new. Dean leans back, his unbroken ribs expand and contract. His strong hips curve in a stretch. His unbloodied mouth moves in a smile. 

Cas tries to get up and gather himself before he ruins anything more, but Dean holds him. 

“Hey,” he says softly and sits up until his words are at Cas’ ear. “Your turn.” 

“It doesn’t work that way,” Cas tries to explain. Except Dean is kissing him again and his finges are pushing warm down Cas’ sides. One palms slips down his stomach to take his weakness in hand and the other sooths over his exhausted spine. Those blue threads in his vessel are pulled tight, fit to snap. Cas turns with them, gasps Dean name when he can’t find the purchase he needs. 

Is this what agony feels like? 

His confusion must show, because Dean pushes him onto his back and gently says: 

“Just take it, Cas. Just let it happen.” 

Cas does. He opens his chest and closes his eyes, trusts Dean enough to exist in his skin (it’s only fair, now). The exhilaration takes him, stretches him apart, and then sews him together at the tip of Dean’s tongue. Cas wraps his arms around human shoulders and pulls a man close. He asks for one thing, and he doesn’t care what it ruins. 

“Break me.” 

Dean twists his hand and forces Cas to look him in the eyes while he does it. He pulls, takes Cas up to the edge with a wry smile—for six heartbeats Cas is suspended and then Dean smashes him right over the side into the light. 

Somewhere, time is happening. Probably. But Cas can’t feel it anymore. And if it passed already, it must have forgotten to tell him where it was going. 

Dean’s weight is heavy on top of him. He cards his fingers through soft human hair. Dean rumbles deep in his chest, puts a lazy press of his lips to Cas’ sleeping flesh. 

“I’m gonna get us out of here, Cas,” he mumbles. “Don’t worry.”


End file.
